


When the End Comes

by likeporcelain



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Battle for the Iron Throne, F/M, Fluff, Implied Violence, Post Great War, Post Season 7, lots of mentions of blood, maybe a little graphic depending???, nothing graphic though, post battle for the iron throne???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 18:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12041922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeporcelain/pseuds/likeporcelain
Summary: Takes place after the Great War. Jon and Daenerys battle in King's Landing for the Iron Throne, and win. But, both are left wondering if the other is still alive.





	When the End Comes

He had sworn to get her the Iron Throne. He had sworn to himself that his father and brother would be avenged. Jon Snow did not truly believe he would survive the Great War, but there he stood, fighting again. This should have been the easy part. Once you've defeated death, what could stop you? 

He wasn't sure when it happened exactly. Was it before or after he sliced the head off of that goldcloak? Was it before or after he flew off his horse to drive Longclaw down the spine of a Lannister soldier? After he beheaded the Sellsword who had Tormund on his back in the mud? Whatever the exact time, at some point during the battle, standing among the slaughter, blood dripping down his face like tears, he watched them take her. 

The first emotion he felt was anger. Angry that Daenerys was not atop Drogon like they had planned. Angry at Tyrion for no doubt sanctioning the ludicrous idea that she should not be atop Drogon. Mostly, though, he was angry with himself for being stuck in the muck, dodging swords, spears and arrows instead of casting them into the Mountain's rotten flesh and pulling the woman he loved to safety.

The Lannister Army, and even the Sellswords were no match for Jon, but he was fighting at half-capacity as he kept one eye trained on Daenerys as she was dragged into the Red Keep. Stabbing, slicing, carving and piercing, Jon fought his way toward her, inch by bloody inch, but she was so far away. And soon, she was gone, thrown through the castle doors that slammed shut behind her.

Jon could hardly breathe from the blood that filled his nose, and he could hardly hear from the blood that crusted in his ears. He was unrecognizable from all the rest, just another one of the infantry men dressed in each others' blood. 

Drogon and Rhaegal circled the castle, crying out for their mother. The very last thing Jon's eyes beheld before his knees gave out and his mind blackened, was the Red Keep igniting in a wild blaze.

*

Daenerys awoke hours after the battle was finished, blinking bits of dust from her eyes and pulling her bare limbs from piles of ash and snow that wanted to cling to her like a robe. Her long silver hair was all that covered her shoulders. Her teeth chattered and her skin felt like ice. 

Slowly, she rose, all alone in the rubble that once was the throne room. Now, giant gaping holes in the ceiling opened up the great hall to the elements, allowing snow to fall and cover the fancy floors turned black and burnt. The windows were empty frames in crumbled walls, letting the sharp breeze fill the room with cold. 

When Ser Davos entered the room, eyes blood shot and face white as a sheet, he found the Queen sitting upon the throne, naked body folded over, arms hugging her knees to her chest as the temperature slowly ate away at her senses. 

“You Grace,” he said with a look of concern – no, a look of terror. 

Jon's adviser bounded across the room and up the cracked steps on his unsteady legs while he pulled the thick cloak from his shoulders. He draped it around the Queen's. Thankfully, she responded immediately, pulling the cloak ever tighter around her shivering body. 

“Is it over?” she uttered the simple question, still having not made eye contact with the man. She wasn't even sure she wanted him to answer. 

“Aye, Your Grace,” he answered softly. “It's over.”

“Did we win?”

“Aye.”

“And. . .” she began, pausing to take a long ragged breath. “Is Jon. . .?”

“I don't know, You're Grace.” Davos bowed his head. “There were a lot of casualties. Thousands. It'll take some time to sort through. . .” He stopped himself. “We're lookin' for him.”

The Queen stood from the throne. The bottom of Davos's cloak pooled around her bare feet as she took slow, careless steps toward the half-destroyed balcony. She failed to notice the bits of glass that scattered the floor burrowing into the flesh under her feet. Or, if she did notice, she didn't care. 

Gazing out at the battlefield from the height of the Red Keep, Daenerys thought it looked more like a large cluster of beetles than the site of a massacre, some bodies wiggled about and some laid deadly still, abandoned banners strewn about the scene. She noticed a flash of white roaming the bodies. Ghost, searching for his father no doubt. 'Please,' she prayed. 'Please let him be alive.'

Only for a minute could her eyes roam the lifeless forms of the Unsullied soldiers and Dothraki bloodriders, Northern armies and their allies, even their fallen enemies, before she had to turn away with sickness. She retched, hand on her stomach, but nothing came up. Had it really been that long since she'd eaten? What little sunlight they had was dissipating quickly. If they did not find Jon before the night took hold, she feared they never would. And then. . . would it all have been for nothing? 

Suddenly, the air filled with the low, echoing howl of Ghost and Daenerys's stomach dropped.

Davos was by her side in an instant, peering over the balcony, but the Queen dared not take another glance. “If he's alive. . .” she began.

“I'll bring him to you, Your Grace,” he replied swiftly and turned to go. 

“Ser Davos,” she called out to him before he left her sight. “If he's dead. . . bring him to me still.”

The Queen's companions began filtering in, congratulating her on the victory, but she didn't want to hear any of it. Was this the point at which she was supposed to rule over the Seven Kingdoms? From this pile of rubble she was surrounded by? From this hard, unforgiving chair she curled herself in, trying to clear her mind of all the blood and screams and the last words Jon spoke to her before the battle began: “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

She had smiled at his silliness in the face of death. He was so sweet and charming for such a talented killer. She should have taken things more seriously, she should have forced him to take them more seriously, she should have grabbed his face and kissed him like it would be there last. Instead, she went her way and he went his. They had different rolls to play in the battle. She had survived her roll. Had he survived his?

The soft sound of footsteps padding over broken lumber and stone drew Daenerys's attention toward the room's main entrance. Ghost's bright red eyes shone back at her from the other side of the room, his large white body spattered with red.

She stood.

Beside the direwolf, Ser Davos stepped forward earnestly and leaning against him, favoring one leg, was a man she hardly recognized at first. His hair and beard caked with blood and the skin of his face covered in the same deep red that coated his dented armor and torn clothes. But it was him. 

“Jon,” she whispered into the cold. 

The King in the North removed himself from his adviser and hobbled forward. Daenerys felt each one of his footsteps like a needle in her heart and when his legs could go no further and his knees sunk to the floor, she gathered up her cloak and ran to him, down the throne steps, across the snow and dirt and broken things, and before he could fall she dropped down and threw her arms around him.

Dany wept against his shoulder as she felt his warm breath on the side of her face, proving to her that Jon Snow was still alive in there. She took his face in her hands and leaned back to look into his eyes. Yes, those same dark brown eyes gazed back at her. She swiped her thumbs under them, the blood wiping off with the wetness of his tears. She pressed her lips to his, forgiving the taste of battle and death upon them. 

Nothing else mattered in that moment, not the wind turning her skin blue, not her advisers watching from the shadows, not that hideous chair behind her or the stench of stale fire. 

And then he smiled. “It's good to see you,” he murmured, voice hoarse and deep.

She breathed in his words like she needed them more than air.

“I thought you'd died.”

“Die?” he asked with a rough, quiet chuckled. “That doesn't sound like me.”

Daenerys pulled him against her once more, holding him as tightly as her bruised arms would allow. He groaned against her, struggling to even lift his own arms to reciprocate their embrace. 

“I love you, Dany,” he told her and her heart pounded inside her chest.

Daenerys knew the King in the North loved her, everyone did, but she wasn't sure if she ever actually heard the words from his lips before. It was hard for him, she knew. It was hard for her too. 

“I love you,” she breathed in response into the crook of his neck. “And it's all over now. The war is over – all of the wars – and we're still here. We don't have to fight anymore. You don't have to fight anymore. It's over.”


End file.
